


The Lawns Of Paradise Will Weep With Dew At These, Our Revels

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Terra Incognita [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sex, Infidelity, M/M, brief reference to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5638042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does anybody get any work done in this place?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lawns Of Paradise Will Weep With Dew At These, Our Revels

**Author's Note:**

> The case of the dancing plague comes from a conversation I had with Millicent Cordelia- I hope you don't mind me using it; it was too good not to!  
> It's a series! This being the third entry, after "Latigo", and "Is It Not Queer That He Is Thus Bewitched?"  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Crime's gotten weird. But it's Gotham. Crime's always been weird. People don't function the same as they do in other places, killing each other over money or jealousy. This place does something to your brain, makes you throw out the accepted, and go chasing ghosts and mirages. How do a bunch of people, with no discernible relationship to each other, suddenly make the decision to get up and dance, until they drop dead? They don't, obviously- which is why the G.C.P.D's there- lucky them. Some weird new drug is probably to blame- there's always a weird new drug- but even that is just speculation, at this point.  
“What actually killed them?” Jim asks.  
Nygma looks up, with that weird, eager smile. “It was probably cardiac arrest or extreme dehydration. Those are likely enough. We will, of course, know the identity of the true villain of the piece when Dr. Thompkins has had a chance to examine the bodies.”  
“Okay,” Jim says, and leaves it at that.  
“I'd heard of the dancing plagues of medieval Europe, but that kind of mass hysteria is almost unheard of in this day and age,” Nygma mutters to himself, again bent over a corpse. Then, wide-eyed, like he was talking in his sleep, and abruptly woken: “Do you ever wonder, Detective Bullock, why should it be that so many seemingly-rational people all lose their wits in precisely the same way at the same time?”  
Fucking Nygma. “I don't know, Nygma. Is this something you see a lot of?”  
Now, he looks truly shocked, like he's crashed through into yet another layer of wakefulness. What the hell's going on with that guy? “No. I just wonder... about things.”  
“Don't we all?”  
“For example,” Nygma continues, now professorial, “consider the choices people make. Their pursuits. Who they choose to be with. If one views it from an outsider's viewpoint,” a contemptuous little laugh, “it's really quite ridiculous.”  
Jesus. If Nygma wants a shoulder to cry on, can't he go to Jim? Or, better, Lee, who has some understanding of human emotions. And what it means to make bad choices, Harvey thinks bitterly. He sighs. “Is this about Kringle?”  
“What?” Nygma asks, dazed again. “No. No. Not in the least. Why would you think that?”  
“You were her rebound guy. She 'Dear John's you, then runs off with the guy who used to beat her like a rug.”  
“You know about that?”  
“Ed. You work with cops. There are two things we do: drink, and gossip. Everyone here knows what happened between the two of you.”  
“Really?” Now, why does he look kind of hopeful, then? Fucked if Harvey's ever going to understand him.  
“Yeah,” Harvey says, gently, to spite himself, “It's nothing to be ashamed of. You think you're the first person to back the wrong horse? I could tell you some stories...” Could he, ever.  
“Thank you, Detective Bullock.”  
“My pleasure.” No, it wasn't. Christ- he's not drunk enough for this. For this hand-holding. For this nose-wiping. He needs a drink. Another drink.  
But he's been trying to keep it down to a dull roar. To Harvey, it seems like Barnes has that weird code of honor a lot of older cops have: he won't bust a guy for drinking- at least not without a warning, or three. But Harvey doesn't want to put that impression to the test. Barnes just might make an exception for him.   
So, Harvey does what addicts of all kinds have been doing forever: he can't have his substance of choice, so he indulges in something even more dangerous.  
Jim wants to know if the door's locked. Jim locked it, himself. This is, Harvey's sure, Jim's way of trying to get out of it, but unless Harvey hears an actual 'no' come out of Jim's mouth, he's not moving.  
“Tell me to back off,” Harvey says, though, cos he's a decent guy. But he says it with his hand between Jim's legs, cos he's a son of a bitch, too.  
Jim says nothing, but pulls him in close, and kisses him. Guys like Jim, you'd expect to not be into the romantic stuff, but Jim's a pleasant surprise. He likes romance; he likes the rough stuff- all kinds of things. Does Jim like.  
Harvey must be in a giving mood, after all, because he ignores the promise of future agony, and gets down on his knees. When the pain comes, it'll be a reason to drink. You have to be willing to forgive yourself, of all your little foibles, and to be kind to yourself, when you need kindness.  
Jim must be doing some substituting, too, because it takes him about two minutes to come. It's less work for Harvey, so he's not exactly complaining, but it's irregular. Jim usually likes to spin it out, needs more attention. Even when there's an element of danger. Sometimes, especially then.  
This time, though, it's Harvey who has lavished on him all of the little things that Jim likes. So that, age and booze notwithstanding, he's ready to come in his pants by the time Jim gets his hand down them.  
“I'm coming over tonight,” Jim says, breathless, into Harvey's collar.  
“Give a guy a chance to recover,” Harvey says. It's not even over, yet, and he feels like he needs a rest.  
“Tell me to back off.”  
And, yeah, Harvey deserves that.  
This can't be good for his heart, he thinks just after. He can feel it beating in his head, and he needs to sit down, or take a nap, or just check out of his body for a while. Maybe there's a bed free wherever Kean's been stashed.  
Jim doesn't need any of that, though. He's still fussing at Harvey, like none of it's happened. Mouth on his throat. Hand up the back of his shirt.  
“If you're coming over tonight, you might want to conserve some of your energy.”  
Jim hums noncommittally into his skin, and Harvey sighs to himself. This is a problem most people would love to have. This is, in fact, the opposite of a problem. How many over-the-hill drunks have to worry about fending off the attentions of someone young and pretty? How many people feel guilty about having too much of a good time?  
Something's wrong, though. Something Harvey should be able to identify. All of the evidence is before him, but he's struggling to form a coherent narrative. The same clues present themselves again and again, but the more he sees of them, the less sense they make.  
“This isn't good for my heart,” he actually tells Jim later on, at night, when they've already enacted the first part of their ritual. First, they get drunk. Then, they fuck. Harvey can imagine why Jim needs to drink, but in his case, it's just force of habit. He considers doing this sober, but the thought of doing anything sober, even something he might enjoy more that way, is viscerally abhorrent.   
“What isn't?”  
Of course, Jim's going to make him spell it out. “This. What we're doing. Drinking,” and, God, does it ever feel wrong to hear these words come out of his own mouth, “You jumping on me five times a day.” What is he saying? “I'm not in the shape I used to be.”  
“What are you telling me?”  
Harvey shakes his head. “I don't know what the fuck I'm telling you.”  
“Do you want to stop doing this?”  
If he hears the word 'Yes' come out of his mouth, he's eating his gun, because this is the best thing he's ever had, and he's willing to forgive himself his fuck-up's, but there is a bridge too far. “No. I just mean. Fuck. Talk to me, Jim. What the fuck is going on between you and Leslie?”  
“I'm not talking about that,” then, totally unnecessarily, “There's nothing going on between us.”  
I can see that, Harvey wants to say, otherwise, what're you doing here? “Something happened. For the past week, you've been different.”  
“Different, how?”  
“Different, like you've been fucking like it's going out of style. And, believe me, as we speak, I'm kicking myself for questioning my own good fortune, but why?”  
“Maybe I just like it.”  
“Okay.” Harvey's tired. “Okay. That's fine.”  
The right thing to do is to call the whole thing off. To claim fatigue, or headache, or impotence, and send Jim home. Assuming Jim would go home. Even though he's relinquished his cover story about illness, and he's been spending more time with Leslie, Harvey has the distinct feeling that, even if he throws Jim out, there's still someplace else for him to go. Somehow, this is the most distressing thing of all. What the fuck is Jim doing to him, to Leslie? What the fuck is Jim doing to himself?  
“It's fine,” Harvey repeats, sighs in a deep breath, and kisses Jim. With that, all concerns are brushed aside. They go to bed. Harvey somehow manages a repeat performance, and a good time is had by all. When he wakes up in the middle of the night to take a piss, and to curse the discovery of alcohol, Jim is gone. Harvey's too tired, and too disgusted with the world to feel very much about this.

* * *

Another person would look on it as not being safe, even at work. Jim's always looking at him, with this half-formed hunger that seems to be less provoked by Harvey, than directed at him because he's there. But Harvey's not hiding from Jim. He just needs some time to himself. Someplace quiet, where he can think.  
Records is a quiet place. Since Kringle left, they haven't found a replacement, and without someone to tell them where to look, no one's coming down here. Except Harvey. And the only guy he's looking for is Daniels, comma, Jack. This is how it has to be, today. Whatever Jim's got going on, Harvey instinctively wants to stay away from it. Let Jim come to his senses on his own. But not too much into them. Or Harvey will be shit out of luck.  
He's already shit out of luck. Fuck, he mouths. Who the fuck is this, now? Harvey roams further into the cabinets and shelves, but he still hears the 'beep-boop' of a phone number being dialed.  
“It's me.” It's Nygma.  
There's a long pause. “I don't like doing this, you know,” Nygma snaps, then more quietly, “It makes me feel cheap.”  
Now, there's an even longer pause. Nygma sighs. “He seems... distracted. I guess. He's certainly not his usual self.”  
Another pause. “No, I don't think he suspects. Though, the other day,” a high-pitched giggle, “I nearly told him everything, about Miss Kringle.” Pause. “Well, he brought it up.” Pause. “Well, no, not in so many words.” Pause. “And I said 'nearly'.” Pause. “Oh, he's very direct; if he suspected something, he'd say so.”   
Pause.   
“You don't think highly of him, do you?” Pause. “Well, that's a little hypocritical,” Nygma snorts. Then, placating: “I just mean that I'm concerned about your alcohol consumption.” Pause. “I know that you're in pain, but all that alcohol, combined with the pills isn't good for you.” Pause. “I just care about you,” he murmurs.   
There's a very, very long pause, during which Nygma drops something- it sounds like his glasses- and shuffles around, picking them up. “Well, if he did, he'd hardly say anything to me.” A gasp. “I can't do that! Then we'd both be in trouble!” Pause. “That's different. And that's my business, not yours.” Pause. “I don't want to argue. I'll try to find a way to work it into the conversation, but it won't be easy.”   
Pause. “Yes, I'll pick up a bottle of wine on the way home. But can't that big fellow do things like that for you? Doesn't he work for you?” Pause. “Okay, okay. Jeez. I didn't mean to besmirch his honor. I'll get your wine. And peanut butter? What's wrong with my peanut butter? Oh, that's right- I don't have any. All right...”  
Harvey makes a face. When the hell did Nygma get married?  
“I can't say that!” Nygma gasps, and Harvey takes a step toward him. “You are? Right now? But it's the middle of the day. Are you drunk? Oh... Oh...” This second 'Oh' has a different shading to it. Harvey moves closer, still. “I can't do that! I'm at work! …I can't do that, either!” Pause. In a whisper: “All right. We can do that when I come home. But this time, I want to be you. You can be Detective Gordon.”  
It's been a long time since anything made Harvey's eyes widen, but this is-  
What, exactly, the fuck is this?  
“Try to calm down,” Nygma says, then, “Fine. Don't calm down. Just don't make too much noise. You never know who might be listening. I'll see you later.” An irritated snort. “No, I won't forget your wine.”  
Involuntarily, Harvey's shaking his head. The fuck-  
What the fuck?  
Seriously. He looks at the mouth of the bottle. What the fuck? He drinks. Though, he must admit-  
This is in no way his fucking problem.

“Detective Bullock, can I ask you a sensitive question?”  
“No.” It's four, and Harvey's in the fist of a dizzying afternoon drunk, not sure if he wants to sing, punch someone, throw up, pass out, or all of those, not necessarily in that order. Nygma's face falls. “All right,” Harvey sighs, “What do you want to know?”  
“I wanted to ask- that is, I wondered... if things are all right between Detective Gordon and Dr. Thompkins.”  
“You'd have to ask him. Or her.”  
“I know,” Nygma looks down- is he blushing?- “I would. Only, I don't know how to phrase the question, in order to register my concern, as opposed to seeming as though I were prying.”  
“It's a fine line. Why do you want to know?”  
“Oh. I- well, I work with both of them, and I know how difficult relationships can be-”  
“Because of Kringle.” And, suddenly, Harvey knows something, or remembers something, or remembers knowing something. “What about you, Ed? Seeing anyone new?”  
“Me?” Now, he really is blushing. “No. Not at all.”  
Harvey sits up a little straighter. “It's just someone told me that they overheard you on the phone, the other day. You seemed pretty intimate with whoever you were talking to.”  
“Intimate, me? Oh, no. That was. That was my mother.”  
“Your mother.” Your mother's a boozy pill-head into weird sex-games about your co-workers. Uh-huh. But Harvey's not ready to let Nygma know that he knows. Whatever it is he knows.  
“Yes. She had surgery recently, and the medication she's taking has made her a little... unbalanced. I'm having to care for her, at the moment, and unfortunately, sometimes, it's just easier to humor her. She, er,” he looks around, “has a tendency to forget who she's talking to. Sometimes, she thinks that I'm my father.”  
Well, now, Harvey's sorry he asked. Not that he believes a word of it. He's just sorry.  
“Yeah, okay.”  
“But getting back to-”  
“Tell your mother that Jim's not sharing any special confidences with me, and if she wants to know something about his relationship with his wife, she should ask him.”  
Edward goes the color of one of his cadavers. “I will,” he says quietly.  
“Do that.”  
And what does Harvey do? Harvey surveys the terrain of the knowledge he's accumulated, and finds himself baffled. In the distance is the suggestion of familiarity, in this strange land, but it's a bizarre, horrifying familiarity that Harvey can barely allow himself to acknowledge. It's one of many such geographical features that Harvey's encountered throughout his life, and he knows just what to do. He shuts his eyes, and pretends that he's someplace else.


End file.
